


No Warrior

by Tiny_Teddy_Bear



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: Awkwardness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Kissing, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-19 01:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5950492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiny_Teddy_Bear/pseuds/Tiny_Teddy_Bear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Valka he falls for – slender, fey Valka with her doe eyes and her shy secret face. She is no warrior, but somehow, Stoick doesn't mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Valka is no warrior.

She is a chronicler, a teacher of children and a writer of runes. She can stitch a tapestry or a quilt or any sort of article of clothing, but she is not a warrior.

Stoick doesn’t mind. It’s strange – he’d always imagined that the woman who finally captured his fancy would be a strong one, a woman who could fight with the best, a woman like his own mother Brunhilda. But instead, it’s Valka he falls for – slender, fey Valka with her doe eyes and her shy secret face.

He watches her for a long time before there are words between them. He sees the way she startles at loud noises – the way she slips away into the forest to be alone – the way she is always sketching in the little book she carries. Charcoal, she uses. Once he caught a glimpse of what she was drawing; it was a little bird, lovingly captured on her page in the instant before flight.

He doesn’t think he’s all that obvious when he watches her. It’s just a sideways glance here, there a watertight excuse for being where he knows she will be; and always he keeps his face as impassive as a rock.

Somehow, though, he thinks Valka might have realised. She’ll shoot darting glances at him, here and there, and sometimes she will flush faintly when he passes her by.

He’s not sure if this is a good sign or a bad one.

And he’s also not sure how to broach the subject between them. Indeed, it’s almost impossible to start any sort of conversation with Valka, because whenever he makes a move in her direction, her eyes widen and she slips away.

Her eyes are so big and brown and beautiful. Stoick finds himself trying to sketch them one night. Of course the drawing is a miserable failure, and he sends the crumpled-up paper flying into the fire, lest someone see it and know his folly. Why – _why_ will she not let him speak to her?

Tomorrow, he resolves. Tomorrow will be the day.

* * *

He looks for her the next day. Valka is always elusive, but he sees her at last, walking slowly past the well, gazing into nothingness.

This time, he tries intercepting her by stealth. He skulks up a side path and comes out just as she passes.

‘Good morning, Valka,’ he says gruffly.

She startles, her hands jerking up to her chest as if to ward off an attack, her brown eyes afraid. She swallows.

‘Good – good morning.’ Her voice is very soft, and her cheeks are flushing again. She is – oh, she is very beautiful. He notices that she has a loose strand of hair falling across her face, and checks the impulse to brush it away from her eyes.

She’s stopped still, in her tracks, as though she knows it’s more than just a simple greeting. She looks at him fearfully.

Stoick decides it must be hopeless. He feels like a brute, awkward and overgrown, terrorising someone much smaller than himself. She would never say yes, when she looks at him like that – with that fear in her face.

Still, his Viking stubbornness makes him say it, anyway.

‘Valka,’ he starts. ‘Valka, I – was wanting to speak to you.’ He pauses, and then, abruptly, on his gruffest note, says, ‘Would you – allow me to court you?’

She freezes, like a startled deer, her eyes terrified. Not merely fearful, or shy, or nervous, but truly terrified, as though he has done something horrifying. Stoick winces, inwardly, as tension solidifies the space between them, like a sudden freeze on a winter’s night. And then, as he braces himself for her rejection, she makes a little choking noise, and turns and flees towards the forest.

Stoick stands there quietly and watches her go, an odd, vice-like pain squeezing his chest. That is clear enough, at any event. Valka wants nothing to do with him.

* * *

Valka runs, and hides. She hides in a little rocky place, deep in the forest, and huddles on the ground, holding her knees tightly to her chest.

She doesn’t know what she’s feeling, swirling stormily inside her, emotion on emotion. Fear. Confusion. Elation. Embarrassment.

She’s crying, too, just a little – the sort of tense crying that makes your throat sting and your whole head ache, and she sobs, dry and fierce and low, into her folded knees. It feels like a storm is raging inside her, an ice storm where painful splinters of frozen snow whirl and jab and strike.

What would she have said to him? To Stoick, the Chief?

No-one, _no-one_ could be less fitted to being the Chief’s wife than herself, dreamy Valka of the books and the runes. Of that, she is sure. The Chief’s wife needs to be strong and well-loved, popular with the other villagers, able to back up her husband in ruling Berk. Making decisions. Enforcing order. Settling disputes.

And how could she, Valka, be that woman? Despite her name, she is no warrior maiden. She doesn’t like fighting. Confrontation makes her shiver and withdraw.

She is the _very last person_ that Stoick should choose.

The trouble is that she wants it. She wants it desperately, in a warm fire-red place in the centre of herself, and it shames her, but the wanting is not the sort that one can tamp down and forget.

Stoick.

He fascinates her. He’s full of contradictions; he swings from magnificent anger to implacable calm. From ferocious battle-rage, to great gentleness, as he sees to a baby yak or an injured man. His voice is gruff, yet quiet. His face is fierce, but sometimes his eyes are so soft.

He comes closer than anyone has ever come to fitting the empty, lonely little spot inside her, and that frightens her badly.

She realises that her whole body is tensed up against itself as she sits there, and she’s shaking. Her jaw is clenched painfully tight, and her head aches worse than ever.

What can she do? What can she do?

* * *

Stoick flings himself into the work of chieftainship, as the grey week passes. If his body is tired to exhaustion by the evening, it’s a little easier to sleep without the thought of Valka’s frightened eyes looming before his face.

He wishes he just knew what he had done to make her so afraid of him. He’d tried to be so gentle. Valka needs gentleness.

She needs – needs someone to be there for her; she is always alone. Except for the small children she teaches, she never has any company. It’s always just she and her father, who’s old and dour and spends most of his time sitting with the other old warriors on the stone slab in the marketplace. She needs someone.

Well, it was obvious that Valka didn’t want _him_ to be that person. She had made that quite painfully clear, and he will not bother to think about her again. There are many other girls, both from the tribe and its neighbours; he must keep an eye out for someone.

He spends perhaps ten heartbeats searching his memory for someone who would make a good wife, but Valka’s face floats in the way, all soft lips and luminous eyes full of dreams.

Stoick groans, softly, deep in his chest, and flings an arm over his face.

Hammer of Thor. Another sleepless night.

* * *

Valka leans over the small still pool of water, chin in her hands, stretched out on her stomach, watching her reflection. She is _not_ , of course, wallowing in self-pity; she is immersed in a black cloud of depression.

How wide and tragic her eyes look. Are they always so big and sad, she wonders? Do other people notice?

Grass tickles her arms. She watches as a tiny purple beetle climbs along a tall stalk, further and further, till it reaches the very end. The stalk quivers but doesn’t bend, and from it the beetle climbs on to a flower and starts to nibble contentedly on a petal.

Valka smiles, a little, in spite of herself. ‘Hello,’ she whispers.

Then she drops her face back down into her arms and clenches her teeth angrily. If only _she_ was a beetle, or a flower, or a stalk of grass. Life would be so easy. It isn’t fair.

_Her_ life is so confusing, and it’s all Stoick’s fault.

Perhaps, she thinks, with a sick uneasy twinge, she could fix things by _talking_ to Stoick, but the thought of seeking him out and asking to speak to him makes the bottom drop out of her stomach.

She can’t. She _can’t._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is Valka overreacting? Undoubtedly, and it’s intentional. I feel like this is a key to Valka’s character – she tends to blow up the emotional side of things in her mind until they assume gargantuan proportions. I mean, look at her rationale for leaving her husband and baby son – if you try to follow it through, it makes no sense at all. She looks at Cloudjumper, who’s with baby Hiccup, and realises that this is a gentle creature. Therefore, Valka can’t kill it. And from that she makes the huge logic leap that if she can’t kill a dragon, she might put her family in danger, so she flies away and never comes back. But, she’s just been realising that Cloudjumper is gentle and not dangerous! There’s a huge flaw in her reasoning here.
> 
> Please note, however, that I am NOT condemning Valka. In fact, the reason I wanted to write this story in the first place was that I can intensely relate to her. I have these sorts of flaws too – emotional oversensitivity, a tendency to blow things way out of proportion within my mind, and an inclination to fly solely on feelings, not reason. I believe that Valka cared deeply about her husband and son, and she truly believed she was doing what was best for them by staying away, as flawed as her logic was.
> 
> Anyway, that’s all in the future, from this story’s vantage point. I simply wanted to write their story, and, in doing so, delve a little into Valka’s psyche, and Stoick’s, and how they work together. I like their chemistry, myself.


	2. Chapter 2

Valka has, naturally, been avoiding the Chief. She’s too ashamed, and – and angry, and scared and shy.

But then Ysolde goes missing.

Ysolde is a baby yak. Valka named her with a beautiful name, because she is beautiful, with big, gentle brown eyes and a silky dark hide. They don’t have many yaks, Valka and her father, and Ysolde is her favourite.

She should really report it to the Chief in the Great Hall, who would then arrange for some help in finding it. But that Chief is Stoick, and Valka is avoiding him, so she sets her chin stubbornly and goes looking for Ysolde on her own.

The little creature isn’t in the village, so Valka tries further afield, amongst hillocks and pastures and rocky ground. It’s tiring, hard work, and her voice is husky from calling, but she keeps at it. She will _not_ ask for Stoick’s help.

She hears the little yak’s voice, at last. But oddly, it seems to be coming from below her, from beneath the earth.

‘Ysolde,’ she calls again, and again there is that faint answering bleat from below her. From – from a deep crack in the rocky ground. Could the little yak have slipped and fallen in?

Valka crouches at the mouth of the crack, peering into the gloom. There’s little enough light allowed inside, but she can just make out Ysolde’s square little shape, prancing about below her. She’s obviously not hurt, and Valka lets out a breath of relief.

But it’s much too far down to hand her out, and the sides of the crack are too sheer to climb down. Valka thinks it could only be done with the aid of several helping hands and a good rope.

She’s just wondering how she can organise those helping hands without going to Stoick when the lip of the crack crumbles beneath her.  She gives a strangled squeak as she falls, amidst a hail of clods and dirt, into the darkness below.

* * *

‘Valka. She’s missing,’ the old man wheezes. ‘My Valka. She were meant to be back for lunch, and she ain’t.’

It’s nearly evening – and Valka said she would be back for lunch. Stoick feels cold suddenly, and something squeezes and lurches inside him.

‘I will arrange a search,’ is all he says.

* * *

‘Valka!’ Stoick shouts the name into the gathering gloom. ‘Valka, can you hear me? Valka!’

Just like each other time he’s called her name, there’s no response. He waits for a moment, just to be sure – and then he hears her.

‘St – Stoick?’

The relief is so great that he has to catch his breath. ‘Valka! Are you all right? Where are you?’

‘Be – be careful! The edge – ’

And there is a soggy sort of crumbling noise, and Stoick roars as the ground gives way beneath him.

* * *

It’s a confused flurry of limbs and breath and crumbled earth at first. But the dirt stops falling at last, and Stoick realises that something with hooves is kicking his shins, and he’s lying half on top of Valka. He can hardly see her face in the darkness, but her breathing is ragged and panicked, and she’s lying there quite limp and still.

‘I am – I’m sorry!’ he says helplessly, and then remembers his position and quickly rolls off her. He’s blushing furiously, but luckily it’s hidden by the dark.

‘You – you _fell in!_ I t- _told_ you to be careful!’ Her voice is shaking, and he realises with a jolt of shock that it’s fury – fury? From quiet Valka?

But she also sounds scared half to death, and a hair’s-breadth from tears.

‘Valka, I am truly sorry,’ he says humbly. ‘Please forgive me?’

Silence, except for a little bleat from further away. That’s right – there’s a Loki-cursed _yak_ here too. For an insane instant he wants to roar with laughter. But he controls himself in the space of a few breaths, and waits.

There’s a tiny sound, like a broken breath. Is Valka – crying?

‘I am – _not crying_ ,’ she hisses then, almost as though she had pulled the thought from his mind. But she does sound like she’s crying, and trying not to. He can picture her face, tearstained, her eyes straining wide to stop the tears.

Before he can be afraid, he reaches out, shuffling forward in the blackness to get closer to her. ‘Valka,’ he says, very low – the sort of tone he would use to calm a frightened animal.

‘I’m – _not_! Don’t – don’t…’

‘Valka,’ he says again, low, soothing. ‘Shh. Valka.’

‘Don’t… _don’t touch me.’_ Her voice is cracking now, wobbling, her breaths fast and shallow.

‘I would never touch you unless you wished it,’ Stoick says quietly. ‘Valka, breathe. Trust me, for once in your life, and just breathe.’

He hears her trying, making her breaths longer, less shallow. ‘Good lass,’ he says. ‘Keep breathing.’

There’s a long, fraught pause, tight strings of tension running in the air between them. Stoick clenches his fists tensely, waiting – what is he waiting for? There is no sound from Valka.

Then she whispers, hardly more than a breath in the stillness, ‘My – my ankle. It hurts.’

Stoick swallows, audibly. Is it – does she mean…? He clears his throat. ‘Will you – let me see?’

‘Y-yes…’ Her voice is tiny, so tiny. ‘But too dark – to see…’

He is already by her side, and he feels in the dark and touches her soft warm shoulder. She flinches, first, but he leaves his hand where it is, gentle on her body, waiting. His heart thumps in his throat as she leans softly into his touch.

‘Ankle – ’ he says roughly, but his hand is moving on her back, his thumb rubbing soft circles as he feels her trembling, his warmth and hers mingling together. Her fingers touch his chest, light as a moth, inching upwards as though trying to gain the courage to reach his face.

Gentle – he must not scare her. His arms ache with the strain; every fibre urging him to grasp her strongly and crush her against him, kiss her until she gasps for breath. But he must not – he must _not_. His breathing is hoarse, uneven.

And Valka touches his face.

‘ _Valka,_ ’ he says, almost pleading.

A pause, where their fingers burn where they touch; and then she says, ‘Stoick – ’ in a voice that mingles defiance and need and desperation.

And he pulls her to him, and crashes his lips against hers – or does she kiss him first? He isn’t sure, but it feels _right_ , so right – Valka’s lips against the wind-chapped roughness of his own, her body soft and yielding against him.

He gentles his grasp, repentantly, after that first frantic kiss. She’s nestling into his chest, making little soft panting sounds against him, and he holds her tenderly.

‘Did I hurt you, Valka?’ he murmurs, cherishing her to him, touching her hair, her cheek, her chin, with gentle fingers.

‘No,’ she whispers. ‘No, never… oh, Stoick…’ He kisses her on her forehead, and she shivers, trying to huddle still more closely into him. ‘Please – say my name again…’

‘Valka,’ he says. ‘Valka, my love. Beautiful Valka of the runes and the books and the drawings. _Valka_.’ His voice is going oddly rough and choking, but he has to say it. ‘Valka… will you – have me?’

It’s far from eloquent, but she’s shaking, burying her face in his tunic, gripping onto the leather straps of his breast-guard. He holds her securely, steadying her shaking, wondering if she will reply.

Her voice is tiny and muffled when she answers, but it makes his heart leap. ‘I – yes… yes.’

And they cling together, and nothing, in that moment, can cloud their joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving kudos or even a comment below. :)
> 
> I have decided to extend this story, so look out for another chapter soon!


	3. Chapter 3

There is a hail from above and the warm light of many torches as their rescuers arrive, with much laughter and teasing and gibes for their Chief. Some people got all the luck, falling down a crevasse with a pretty girl… had it really been an accident? Should they come back to rescue them at a more convenient time?

Their teasing doesn’t bother Stoick much. If he had been on his own he would have given as good as he got – although, of course, if he had been on his own there would have been no need. But Valka stiffens, all hunched shoulders and high flushed cheekbones, and he can feel her distress almost rolling off her skin. They had sprung guiltily apart when they first heard the rescue party above them, but their hands are still clasped, invisible in the shadows to the rowdy group above.

‘Shall we – keep this secret a bit longer?’ he rumbles, very low.

She looks frightened and uncertain and ashamed, all at the same time. ‘I – I…’

‘Shh,’ he murmurs. ‘It’s all right.’ He squeezes her hand a moment longer, rubs his thumb caressingly across the backs of her fingers, ensconced within his own. Then he stands up and roars, to the rowdy bunch above, ‘SHUT IT!’

They do shut it, too, rather quickly – he is the Chief for a reason, and part of that reason is a loud voice and a commanding presence. Even from down a hole.

‘Have some respect, you bunch of barbarians!’ he says in a marginally – but only marginally – quieter voice. ‘And get us out of this damned hole, for the love of Thor! Now!’

They do it.

* * *

She’s quiet, very quiet. Why is she so quiet? Stoick can’t help glancing at her, a few times, on the way back to the village, even though he knows he should not, that he will betray the secret and shame Valka. She catches his eyes every time, pleadingly, as though she is intensely aware of him and can sense when he is about to look.

He tries to make his look as reassuring as possible, the last time, to tell her with his eyes that it will be all right and he will take care of things. No one of the others will notice that: night has fallen, and the torchlight is uneven and flickering. Then he turns his face resolutely forward until they reach the cluster of houses that make up Berk.

His body feels – full, and sort of buzzing, full of pressure. His heart keeps thudding erratically, as bits and pieces of the last hour spring back and forth in his mind. Valka’s voice, high and shaking and full of tears; the way she had gentled under his caressing hand; that crashing kiss, and the little soft pants she had made afterwards, against him. His stomach flips over pleasurably at the memory. And the way she had clung to him, whispering her acceptance into the rough material of his tunic as he held her securely.

He wishes – oh, he wishes many things, and it is going to be yet another sleepless night.

Valka peels off from the group towards the door of her father’s house, murmuring a soft and general thank-you and goodbye to them all. None of the others send any more teasing comments after her, but that may be because of the pointedly bland look that Stoick sends around the group.

They all disperse, after that, with much back-slapping and thanks and promises of mead in the Great Hall the next day. And Stoick finds himself alone, in his big house, heady euphoria still making his heart thump and his head spin.

She is _his._ Valka, who can draw birds and write runes like her slim fingers were made to do so, who can tell the old stories in a voice that makes children go soft and sleepy – _his._ Something deep and primal, possessive, stirs inside him; an instinct to go and search her out, right here, this night, and wrap her up strongly in his arms until she stills and submits, and _keep_ her there, always…

The thought shames a part of him; Valka is not an object to be possessed, he knows that. He sighs and cracks his knuckles, clenching his great fists until the sinews pop on the backs of them.

Tomorrow, he decides. Definitely tomorrow. He is not going to stay away from her. He will do it very carefully – go out and speak to all manner of people in the village, in the proper Chiefly manner, and end up speaking to Valka’s class of young children. As Chief, one should certainly take an interest in the education of the little ones. And then, when the class was finished, Valka would be on her own, and if he was lucky, no-one would notice if he spoke to her.

Perhaps he could even sort it so that they could slip away together for a little while. The thought sends a splinter of heat thrilling through him.

Yes, he will try to do that.

* * *

Valka wonders if – if he will come to her. It seems as though she might have dreamed it, what happened yesterday, the wonderfulness of it. Stoick’s hands on her face, her back – the way he said her name, so quietly, as though it was sacred. The way he held her, gently, so – excruciatingly gently that it made her throat go tight.

It would be nice, if he came to her. But she mustn’t expect it, because he is very busy, after all, and probably has many, many things he needs to do, important things. No, she won’t expect it. She won’t even think about it, and definitely not assume that she has any claim to his time. He will probably come and talk to her some other day, maybe in a few weeks, when he isn’t too busy.

But yesterday – yesterday, for that wonderful, frightening, intense half-hour, they had been together, with no-one else, and she could remember that, treasure it, in the meantime. How he had pulled her so close, so safe. How he had said –

‘Valka?’ a little voice pipes, and she jumps guiltily, remembering that she was supposed to be listening to small Birte stumbling through her line of runes.

‘Uh… that was good, Birte, very good.’

‘Why is your face going all pink, Valka?’ Birte asks, her sweet little face turned up enquiringly. ‘It’s really, really pink.’

Valka feels her face going even more really pink, and she clears her throat. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe I have – windburn. Now, who’s next for reading?’

* * *

A shadow falls over Valka and her little group of children; a large, very large, man-shaped shadow, broad and tall and horn-helmeted. Her heart leaps to her throat even before she looks up to see him, and she can’t keep the smile from curling her mouth upwards. He _came!_ Even though he was so busy!

She meets his eyes, still smiling, and he is smiling too, behind that red bush of a beard, and she thinks that it is the first time that they have ever both just looked at each other and smiled. Was that a bad thing? Maybe it should worry her. But she can’t feel worried, not now. His eyes are so green. Why had she never noticed how very green they were before?

The children. Right. She still has the children there. Her mind is all fuzzy, like Stoick’s gentle smile has melted it around the edges, but she must – must hold it together.

‘Uh,’ she says. ‘St-stand up for our Chief, children.’

They all do, a short up-and-down line of proud little faces, all wanting to greet their Chief. He speaks to them all – crouches down on one knee to be face to face with the smallest of them, and Valka watches. There is such a warm, warm feeling around her heart to see him like this, so big but so gentle.

Stoick stands up again, smiling a broad friendly smile that encompasses all of the children. ‘What about an early playtime?’ he rumbles. ‘What would your teacher say?’ He turns to Valka, and winks – so that only she can see – and something thuds in her chest, hard.

‘That – that’s a good idea,’ she manages, smiling rather hazily at the children and waving her hand goodbye as they run off with shrieks of joy. And then it’s just him, and her, and no-one around; and he’s looking into her so deeply that it feels like he can see everything about her.

Stoick waits until the children’s voices have faded in the distance, and then says, ‘I thought we might – talk. If you would like to do so,’ and his hand comes forward slowly between them, where she can see it, and she finds her own fingers moving shyly to meet his. Their hands fit well together.

‘To the forest?’ she asks softly, and he nods, his hand warm and firm around hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry! I know this is a bit of a cliffhanger. But the next chapter is written already and waiting to go, and I will be posting it early next week.
> 
> If you enjoyed reading this, please consider leaving kudos, or even a comment to let me know what you thought! :)


	4. Chapter 4

They find a little glade, scarcely more than a small gap in the trees. But the grass is soft, and a ray of sunshine is shining down on them, and they stop and turn to face each other. Valka’s cheeks are burning again, but she meets his gaze bravely. So green, his eyes.

‘Thank you, for coming with me,’ he says in that soft rumble that makes funny things flip around in the pit of her stomach. ‘Did you – sleep well?’

Her gaze drops, and raises again. ‘No, not very,’ she admits, and gives him a daring sideways half-grin. ‘Did – did you?’

‘ _No_ ,’ he growls, and takes a deep breath. ‘Thor Almighty, Valka, that look of yours…’

She is breathing quite fast, herself, and her gaze runs all over his face. And then he puts one big hand on her waist and draws her closer, and she can feel him restraining himself, knows that he could take her and crush her, but will not let himself do so. His other hand comes up to take her chin firmly, his skin rough and dry and very warm.

She licks her lips, tongue darting out unconsciously; and there is no more wondering after that, just Stoick’s mouth on hers and the great pounding of his heart against the thumping of her own. She kisses him back, fierce yet trembling, her arms going around his neck to hold herself up. She feels leather straps and bits of metal and his hair, and clings on tightly against the wave of feeling that crashes over her.

Their lips break apart, but he keeps a firm grip on her, looking down into her dazed face. She thinks dreamily that he might even look rather dazed himself, and she smiles at him with her eyes and leans into the touch of his hand cupping her face.

He draws his head down so that their foreheads touch, just for an instant, and then turns her so that her back is against his chest and his arm is encircling her, the fingers of his other hand tangling in her hair, snagging it into wild disarray. His chest is heaving, and she can feel the soft tickle of his beard on her neck.

‘Shall we – sit down?’ she says, rather shakily, because she doesn’t know how long her legs are going to keep her upright. He hums in agreement and pulls them both down, rather awkwardly, so that they are sitting in the sunny patch below a rough-barked tree. She ends up nestled into his side, both his arms around her and the side of her face pressed into his shoulder.

Stoick clears his throat. ‘So,’ he says. ‘Er – talking.’

She laughs, very softly under her breath, and his moustache twitches a little, his hands moving in soft calming circles on her back. She reaches up, very daring, and slips her hand beneath the red hair to cup the back of his neck, and a slight shiver runs through his skin.

He does not kiss her again, though, but looks at her seriously, arms secure around her body.

‘Valka,’ he says in that way that she had dreamed of, soft. ‘We must talk, Valka. May I ask you a thing?’

She does not want to talk, or answer questions, and she might have stiffened, if it had not been that he had just said her name twice and made her go weak and boneless inside. Oh, Freya, does he know what that does to her, her name on his lips?

She thinks he must know, and he presses his advantage. ‘Valka?’ he murmurs, low, into her hair, and her whole body flares in response. ‘Y-yes – yes,’ she stutters. ‘You can – you can ask it…’

His thumb moves in circles near her waist, soaking warmly through her clothes, and she shivers. ‘My question is this. Are you afraid of me, Valka?’

It is an odd question, one that could be asked in play, but Stoick is not asking it in play. He is watching her carefully, his eyes a little worried, waiting for her answer.

She is not sure what to say, but after a moment she finds the closest words to truth, whispers them to him. ‘A – a little. Just a little. But – mostly in a good way.’

‘I do not want you to be afraid of me,’ he says, very seriously, holding her eyes with his own. ‘Not at all, except in the good way, which is the way I am afraid of you as well. I am not making sense.’

‘You make good sense,’ she says, turning her face into him so that the words come out rather muffled. ‘I don’t – want to be scared of you, but…’ she halts, and the rest comes out in a whisper, ‘I can’t – help it, I just…’

He carries on making those little, delicious, soothing movements with his hands on her back, and after a moment says, very gently, ‘Are you afraid of everyone like this, Valka?’

She shakes her head a little. ‘No…’ But she can’t go on.

Stoick huffs out a softly frustrated breath, and Valka freezes for a moment. ‘There,’ he says in an aching voice. ‘You are afraid again. I’m sorry. I want to look after you, to protect you, but all I seem to do is make you fear me!’

‘No!’ she says desperately. ‘No! I’m sorry! I will try harder, I don’t mean to make things difficult for you, please, I’m not afraid of you, don’t go away, _please_ …’

She could bite her tongue out when she realises what she has said, pleading with him to stay, showing him all the shameful childish fears inside her. She shrinks inside herself, hunching her head down.

Stoick has gone quite still at her words, and then his arms go gentle around her, so gentle, but no less secure. ‘Valka,’ he rumbles, ‘Oh, my sweet, is this – is this why? Why you are so afraid? That you expect me to go away?’ He cherishes her against himself, almost – cuddling her, and it makes her throat go tight and achy.

‘Well,’ she says, ‘well, you might – you – I – no-one else…’ Her voice goes up at the end, wavering a little, and she forces it back to a more normal pitch. ‘And you – say my name and think I’m worth – worth something. And – and – ’

‘Who would not think you were worth something?’ he says, his hand sweeping under the hair at her neck and stroking her nape softly.

‘Father doesn’t,’ she says, and snaps her mouth shut. She had not meant to say that, not at all, _ever_ …

Stoick goes on stroking the nape of her neck, very gently, just going on and on stroking, and it is so soothing that she feels her tension draining away a little, despite herself. _Stroke. Stroke._ She is melting into his hand.

‘Valka,’ he says. _Stroke. Stroke._ ‘I want you to listen to me very carefully, and try to believe me. Will you do that?’

‘Mm,’ she murmurs. One part of her is in a lovely haze from his gentle touch on her neck, but another part is intent on his face, the honesty in his green eyes.

‘You are worth – very much to me,’ he says huskily. ‘More than anyone else. I have watched you, listened for your voice, waited. I – love you, Valka. I will never go away, never.’

Valka wants to believe it, wants so much to believe it. She looks at him pleadingly, and he bows his head over hers and holds her as she snuggles into him. He feels so safe, so warm, and he doesn’t seem to want any more talking, so she closes her eyes and relaxes.

It is a while before she realises that Stoick is humming, humming so softly that she feels the vibration of his chest rather than hearing it, at first. She listens, her eyes still closed, and realises that it is a song she recognises, an old, old song. A song that lovers sing to one another.

He brushes a tangled bit of hair away from her face with a gentle hand, and his humming becomes words, very soft, hesitating.

_‘I'll swim and sail on savage seas  
_ _With ne’er a fear of drowning…’_

Valka catches her breath in and holds it. It is so – real, Stoick’s voice a little husky around the edges, but his whole heart in the words he is singing to her. To her!

_‘And gladly ride the waves of life  
_ _If you would marry me._

_No scorching sun nor freezing cold  
_ _Will stop me on my journey…’_

His voice is gaining strength now, and impulsively she twists in his arms and then jumps to her feet, pulling him with her. His eyes catch the sparkle that is in hers, and then Valka joins her voice to his, sweet against the deep roughness of Stoick’s, hesitating a little at first but then steadying.

_'If you will promise me your heart  
_ _And love me for eternity.’_

They are still for a moment, paused, hands linked butterfly-light between them. And then Stoick is smiling broadly, and Valka is grinning back, and they jump into the pattern of the traditional couple’s dance that goes with the words. Their arms crook and touch – his is so big against her own – and then they spin on their heels and rotate, faster and faster, laughing joyously between the words of the song.

_‘My dearest one, my darling dear_  
_Your mighty words astound me_  
_But I've no need of mighty deeds  
_ _When I feel your arms around me!_

_But I would bring you rings of gold_  
_I'd even sing you poetry!_  
_And I would keep you from all harm  
_ _If you would stay beside me!_

_I have no use for rings of gold_  
_I care not for your poetry_  
_I only want your hand to hold  
_ _I only want you near me._

_To love and kiss, to sweetly hold_  
_For the dancing and the dreaming_  
_Through all life's sorrows and delights  
_ _I'll keep your love inside me._

_I'll swim and sail on savage seas_  
_With ne’er a fear of drowning_  
_I'll gladly ride the waves of life  
_ _If you will marry me!’_

They collapse together on the grass, laughing and clutching each other and smiling. Valka feels as though her face might split open with joy as she looks up at his face. She had never before thought that she might be able to have fun with someone like this, to laugh and play and sing together, but now she wonders if she could ever have enough of it.

‘You look so happy,’ he says softly, and his eyes are glowing. ‘So beautiful and happy. Oh, Valka,’ and he pulls her closer and kisses her again and again, softly, on the corners of her mouth and the dip in her cheek, her nose, the line of her jaw, even her eyelids. She clings to him, half-laughing, half sobbing, and it feels like nothing will ever be able to harm or hurt her again, like the whole of her existence is contained in this place of warm sunshine and Stoick, Stoick’s strong arms and tickly beard and wonderful teasing kisses.

He stops, only to lay his hand gently on her cheek, turning her face up towards his. She looks into those green eyes, quivering.

‘ _Valka,_ ’ he says softly, and his voice makes it a promise.

* * *

They walk back to the village hand in hand, after that, and although nothing is spoken between them, Valka finds she does not too much mind the rest of the village finding out, after all, and keeps her hand firmly clutched in Stoick’s. There are gleeful calls and whistles, of course, when everyone notices their Chief and their children’s teacher holding hands; and Valka can’t help herself from blushing, but she keeps her head high.

And then she looks up at him, and he looks down so tenderly – and after all they have no privacy left to lose. So it does not really much matter that they stop and kiss each other, very thoroughly, in the centre of Berk for everyone to see.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m thinking of writing an epilogue, which will include their wedding/handfasting. I really want to write more Stoick/Valka, and I have a quite a few ideas, which I may publish as separate stories. (For example: Valka’s cooking; the incident where Gobber meets Valka, as mentioned by Stoick; and Valka making Hiccup’s little dragon toy.) I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If you enjoyed this, please consider leaving kudos or even a comment if you have the time - I'd love to hear what you thought! :)


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